Reviving Romance
by DandelionSunset
Summary: Valentine's Day is around the corner and no one hates it more than Katniss Everdeen. She keeps receiving messages from a supposed secret admirer, who she's positive is a nonexistent, horrible practical joke. Worse yet, she finds herself falling for her archery student and fellow classmate, Peeta Mellark, who is shy, sweet, sensitive, sexy... and assumably gay.
1. Valentine's Grinch

_Okay, so as some of you noticed, I deleted this story from the site a while back. I was experiencing some horrible writer's block, and felt bad that it was taking me months to write new chapters. However, I haven't been able to stop thinking about this story… so I'm posting it again and continuing where I left off. I've made some changes. Not extravagant changes, but changes all the same. As always, thanks for reading!_

* * *

**_Chapter One_**

**Valentine's Grinch**

I narrow my eyes at the multiple huge, frilly pink and red hearts that hang from the bakery ceiling. In all the years that I've been coming here, I've never seen the place quite _this_ overdone for a holiday.

"Well, it looks like it's that time of year again. Time for lovey-dovey coupling crap while the rest of us resist the urge to vomit all over the cutesy decorations."

I stick my tongue out and pretend to gag.

"Why do you hate Valentine's Day so much?" Gale asks in amusement as he bites into a Cupid-shaped cookie covered in red sprinkles. "You never really pay any mind to other holiday decorations."

"Because Cupid taints the image of a bow and arrow," I reply matter-of-factly. "When I shoot something in the heart, it isn't cute, sweet, and fluffy. It's messy, bloody, and _gory_—"

"Katniss—"

"I'm just saying. It's unrealistic."

"It's not meantto be realistic," Gale explains as if I'm a clueless child. "It's symbolic. Like the Easter Bunny hiding eggs or Santa Claus riding around the world in one night, guided by reindeers."

I know that, of course, but it still annoys me. I continue to rant, feeling even more fueled by his rationalization.

"Well, at least those holidays are inclusive. Valentine's Day is only a holiday for little kids to celebrate without knowing the real meaning of it—don't even get me _started_ on that—and for people who are with someone. To the rest of the world, it's merely Singles Awareness Day."

"Sad."

I shrug. "That _is _the initials."

"You do this every year, Kat." Gale smiles as if he feels sorry for me and shakes his head.

"So?" I viciously chomp the head off of a Cupid cookie and narrow my eyes at him. "You used to feel the same exact way, if you remember. Until you got a girlfriend and became one of… _them_."

He arches an eyebrow. "_Them_?"

I nod. "Yes. _Them_. A sucker for soulless corporate sales. You're now just another Valentine's victim. You've changed."

He shrugs and lets out a small laugh. "Well, sometimes you have to be a sucker to get sucked—"

I abruptly hold up hand for him to stop talking, my eyes widening. I shake my head and give a dramatic shiver. "Please spare me the gritty details. I adore you both, but not enough to live with that mental image."

He laughs again, winks, and continues to chew his cookie rather loudly.

"What's the deal with all the pink and red hearts everywhere, anyway?" I rant on, taking a pink paper heart that reads "Be Mine" from the napkin holder and cheerfully tearing it in half; it makes me feel slightly better. "If anything, there should be penises hanging from the ceiling. That's what this holiday is all about anyway… girls getting fluffy stuffed crap and guys getting laid."

"Hey, it's _also_ about chocolates, candy hearts, and cards."

"And condom sales."

"And roses. Don't forget roses."

"Which die and turn black."

"Like your soul, Katniss. Like your soul."

"Whatever. You _know_ I'm right. There's all this pretense of sweetness and romanticism, but we all know what it's really about: materialism and sex."

He nods in agreement and I finally feel a bit justified.

"Well, yeah. That's the payoff. We buy each other something cutesy and romantic, preferably with a heart on it somewhere, and then we fuck," he replies matter-of-factly. I raise an eyebrow at him and cringe. "Or I _don't_ and the only pink thing I'll be seeing for a while is the palm of my hand. I'm not taking that risk."

"That's beautiful, Gale. So very romantic." I snort and clear my throat dramatically. With a dramatic flair, I mimic his voice and recite, "Roses are red, violets are blue. Here's some heart-shaped candy, Madge. Now show me your vag and let's screw."

"That's actually pretty good," he says, appearing both impressed and amused. "Mind if I use that?"

He seems totally serious, too. Only Gale would think that would be an appropriate thing to tell his girlfriend on Valentine's Day. Knowing Madge, though, she'll probably love every word of it. They're both at that stage in their relationship where neither of them can do or say anything wrong. They look at each other with stars in their eyes, and they're constantly going at it like bunny rabbits.

"Have at it," I answer with a flip of my wrist. "Anyway, everything about the day is expected. There's no mystery, and there's nothing random or sweet about it. It really isn't romantic at all. The only thing Cupid is shooting an arrow at is your wallet and your dignity."

I sigh loudly and continue to rip the paper heart into little shreds.

"Lighten up and look at the bright side: while all of us couples are sleeping in the next morning, you singles can hit up all the half-off sales on candy. Win/win."

"Yay. Three cheers for wasting my money on diabetes and obesity," I deadpan.

"You're such a Valentine's Grinch, Katniss."

"Bah, Humbug."

"That's _A Christmas Carol_."

"Same sentiment."

"I wish Cupid would shoot you in the heart," Gale says, smirking, "In Grinchy tradition, it might just grow three times bigger—"

"That seems really painful. You also make it sound like my heart is a penis, and Cupid soaks his arrows in Viagra."

"Well, if you ask me, your micro-penis heart is in desperate need of a good dose of Valentine's Viagra."

"If my heart was a penis, it'd be very well-endowed, thank you very much," I retort. "And just because I think Valentine's Day is meaningless corporate nonsense— which it _totally_ is—doesn't mean that I don't believe in love and romance. I just think it's dead, or walking around like a brain-dead zombie somewhere, or hiding out like Santa and the Easter Bunny; but instead of gifts and eggs, you get screaming, pooping babies and STDs. I mean, I don't think it's a coincidence that the initials for Valentine's Day is VD—"

"Your heart may not be a penis, Katniss, but it _needs_ a penis," Gale teases, arching an eyebrow at me. "And badly, I might add."

I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at him. My heart doesn't _need_ anything, especially not a fleshy male appendage. There isn't anything a man can do that I can't do for myself, and _better_, anyway.

"I resent that," I flippantly reply, "for all you know, my heart is a lesbian."

"That would answer a lot of questions, actually." He casually bites into a cookie, looking contemplative and serious, then shrugs as if I'd just made a confession instead of a joke.

"Ha ha _ha_!" I sarcastically snap and toss a broken cookie at him. "Shut up!"'

His smile abruptly turns into a frown and his eyes turn serious.

"Seriously, though. You should try going on a date or two. Maybe you'll find a guy who'll _actually_—"

"Put up with me?"

Gale shakes his head and continues in a surprisingly concerned and caring tone, "I was going to say 'make you happy,' but yeah, that too I guess."

I know he means well, but his kind words only agitate me further. I've_ tried_ the dating thing. It never works out for me. They're either complete idiots or total jerks; or they're genuinely nice but never call me back, and I'm stuck wondering what exactly I'd done wrong. Besides, for the most part, guys tend to think going on a date means that they have an open invitation for sex, and I'm more of an RSVP type of girl. I might talk openly about certain things, but I've never actually _done _them.

I'd love nothing more than to find true romance, but I'm well aware that it doesn't exist anymore. So I hate it, and holidays like Valentine's Day, which remind me of that fact in all its gaudy and hokey glory.

"I doubt it." I shrug in resignation. "Some people are just meant to be alone and die with fifty cats."

"You hate cats."

"I do, but misery loves company. Besides, I'll need _someone_ to dispose of my body when I die. And cats like to eat their owner's body after they—"

Before I can finish my sentence, Gale has his hand over my mouth. He looks at me in disgust and shakes his head. I smirk when he lets his palm down again, feeling triumphant to have gotten a rise out of him.

"Well," he places a half-eaten cookie down on a tray, as if my cat statement made him lose his appetite, and stands up from the booth, "I think I'm done eating. Besides, it's about time to go."

"Oh, don't be such a wuss, Gale." I laugh and grab the two remaining Cupid cookies from the tray before he takes it to the trash can. "Love has made you weak. Madge has you totally whipped, and I mean that in the friendliest way possible. "

"Whipped, spanked, whatever you want to call it, I hope you experience the same kind of weakness someday."

"Well, there isn't exactly a line of guys interested," I point out, feeling slightly defensive. "In fact, there isn't even _one_. And I'm sure as hell not going to go chasing, either. I'm fine alone. I'm happy this way."

I defiantly jut my chin, cross my arms, and bite the head off of another Cupid cookie.

"With the amount of hatred you have for a holiday about love, you don't _seem_ all too happy, Kat," Gale states. "There are plenty of guys who'd date you, you know. You're not ugly. It's just this sort of attitude of yours that veers them away from taking a chance. They're afraid you'll bite their head off, just like that Cupid cookie."

"Well, this _attitude _of mine is called my _personality_, so if they don't like it, they can _veer _their way to hell for all I care."

Gale gives an exasperated sigh that indicates he's starting to get annoyed with me.

_Good_. He's starting to annoy me, too.

"All I'm saying is that it wouldn't hurt for you to be _slightly_ more approachable—"

"I _am _approachable! It's not _my _fault if they don't have the balls to do or say anything," I counter, feeling agitated. "They're all the same, anyway. They just want someone easy, and even easier to toss aside when they're done having fun. I don't like playing games."

"Yeah, but that's the thing. You might lose, but you also might win. Regardless, you have to play the game in order to win the prize."

"So you have _one_ serious girlfriend, and now you're a love expert?" I scoff, rolling my eyes.

"Sometimes all it takes is one." He shrugs, and the frown is suddenly replaced with a small smile as he thinks of Madge. "Sometimes you just get lucky and the odds are in your favor. Actually, luck has nothing to do with it. If it wasn't for you, we would have never even talked to each other. So maybe the fates will pay you back for that. Give it a chance."

"I'm pretty sure that the odds are not in my favor. Anyway, I'm good with sitting on the sidelines and cheering others on."

"Really? Because right now it seems like you're doing an awful lot of booing."

"It's _not _booing," I indignantly reply as we approach the cash register. "You know I love you and Madge together, and I'm really happy for you both. I just hate the tackiness of this stupid holiday."

Before Gale can retort or say anything in reply, I turn to pay for the cookies.

"Hey, Peet. What's the damage today?" I ask brightly, reaching into my pocket for some money.

Peeta and I have shared a lot of classes together over the years, but he's never really said much to me aside from passive small talk. In fact, he usually avoids my eyes when I speak to him or look in his direction. I don't blame him, though. I guess my personality can be somewhat abrasive, especially in comparison with his reserved one.

I can't help but think that with his blond wavy hair and cheeks that are always tinted a shade of red, he could totally pass for an older Cupid. All he needs is a pair of wings and a bow. I doubt he knows any more about love than I do, though. In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him with any sort of girlfriend. Maybe it's due to his shyness or maybe his family is the religious type that doesn't allow dating.

Or maybe he's gay.

Actually, _that _would make _perfect _sense.

"$8.50," he answers quietly, his voice shaky. He clears his throat and manages to look me in the eye for a split second as he asks, "Everything all right?" His eyes quickly avert down to the cash register, and then to the money being exchanged. I notice that he won't look at my face again.

"Not really," I joke, and give a small laugh. "The new decorations make me nauseous. No offense."

"Ignore Miss_ Anti-Cupid _here—"Gale starts, sending me a dirty look as if I'm being rude. I wasn't _trying_ to be. Peeta asked, and I was being completely honest.

"Sorry," Peeta replies timidly, looking a little embarrassed. "It was all my dad's idea. I know it's a bit much. It drives up sales, though."

"See?" I suddenly snap my fingers and point at Gale, grinning widely at him in triumph. "I _told _you! It's all about money. Romance is dead. Valentine's Day is pointless." I turn back to Peeta and hold out a hand for him to shake. "Thanks for proving my point, Peeta."

He bites his bottom lip, shrugs, and looks taken aback, but reluctantly places his palm against mine. I tightly grasp his hand and give it a quick, vigorous shake. I can feel his hand start to tremble within mine, so I quickly release my grip and drop my hand onto the counter.

"Um… I wouldn't say _that_—" he counters in a tone that's barely audible. Still, it takes me by surprise. He's usually so agreeable; I thought I'd at least have an ally in _him_. I shake my head and sigh as if I've been betrayed.

"Well, I would. Money shouldn't buy love," I reply as I make my way towards the door.

Gale groans and makes a quick exit, but I turn back around. Peeta's face is redder than the paper hearts hanging from the ceiling, and his eyes are narrowed as if he's in deep thought. He doesn't seem mad or anything, but other than that, I can't really decipher his expression. He raises his eyebrows questioningly when he notices I've turned around. I simply wave, and tell him, "Happy sales, Peeta."

* * *

It's the first day of February and it's as if the whole world has turned into the Barbie version of Noah's Ark. Everything is pink and in twos. Couples are invading everywhere, and it seems like hearts have replaced brains. Time for swapping spit, holding hands, and spreading germs. Love is in the air and so is Mono.

I'm currently sitting in English class while the teacher drones on about the romantic aspects of Romeo and Juliet. I personally find it sort of hilarious and ironic that when people think of ultimate love and sacrifice, this story automatically comes to mind. It's literally about two kids, yes – _kids_, because Juliet is only thirteen years old, who meet each other exactly _one time,_ and think, 'Holy hell, what a hottie! I gotta get me a piece of _that_!' Because let's face it, they didn't really _know_ each other.

Love at first sight? Yeah, right. More like _lust_ at first sight.

In fact, Romeo was pissed and heartbroken that very morning because some girl named Rosaline rejected him. Later that evening he goes to stalk Rosaline at a party and presumably be an ass to her, but instead he sees Juliet for the first time ever, and the Rosaline chick gets immediately forgotten. He makes a speedy, miraculous rebound and evidently "falls in love" upon speaking to thirteen-year-old Juliet and making out with her only once.

Which only goes to prove that even in the 1500's, teen boys still confused their penis with their heart, and teen girls still thought with their heart instead of their brain. Anyways, afterwards, in all his stalking, perv-like glory, Romeo spies on her from some bushes while she's pining on a balcony. And, after some poetic, angsty teen melodrama on said balcony, they decide to marry the very next morning.

Basically, they pull the teen rebellion card with their parents on a grand scale. Instead of doing the modern-age thing such as sneaking out of a window at night or making out in the backseat of a school bus, they decide to secretly _marry_ each other so they can legally and morally get it on. Yes, less than twenty-four hours after initially meeting, they marry and screw. And then they wind up killing themselves in horrible ways afterwards because they simply can't live without each other. This all takes place within the span of about three days.

Yes–young, naïve, weak Juliet–a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet… _until it dies_. Then what do you do? Apparently, you just kill yourself with a freaking dagger.

Tragic romance? I find it to be a comedic cautionary tale, myself: Don't have sex, kids! You will bring shame to your family name. And you will _die!_ Also, your cousin and your best friend might also indirectly die as a result of it.

There's a sudden knock on the classroom door and all eyes greedily focus on the Candy Gram Guy. This happens every year, starting two weeks before Valentine's Day. After all, the school _also_ has to find a way to capitalize on the holiday, and so they sell these silly heart-shaped pieces of construction paper—sometimes bearing anonymous messages—with lollipops attached.

As a breakdown of the recipients, you have the obvious boyfriends and girlfriends that send each other cutesy messages, the best friends who send inside jokes to make each other feel better about being single, and then the obviously single people who send the Candy Grams to themselves because they don't want to seem like a loser… or they just _really _want a lollipop.

The Candy Gram Guy starts to call out names. I sigh and roll my eyes as people around me start to act surprised when they receive one. I find myself really wanting to get back to the romantic tale of underage sex and suicide.

"Katniss Everdeen."

I glance up with wide eyes, unsure if I'd heard correctly.

The guy looks slightly impatient. "Katniss Everdeen?"

Who the hell would send _me_ a Candy Gram?

The room goes quiet. Everyone stares at me as I stand up and go to the front of the room. My fellow classmates seem to be as surprised as I am. I'm not exactly known as someone who'd ever receive anything Valentine's Day related. I hear a few whispers and a silent giggle or two. I give them all dirty looks and grudgingly retrieve the obvious practical joke before quickly sitting back down again.

I bet it was Gale.

In fact, I _know_ it was Gale. Who else would send me something like this?

I'm going to kill him.

I'm about to tear the card up into little pieces, but I decide to flip it over first and read the message on the back. I figured it'd be some sort of "gotcha!" message.

I narrow my eyes in confusion, however, as I read:

_Today is the first that I take a chance,_

_With an open heart and a longing glance,_

_For the next two weeks, I'll make a stance,_

_For you, I will revive romance._

I shake my head and roll my eyes. How the hell did Gale come up with this? He doesn't have a poetic bone in his body! He liked and asked to use my poem about Madge's vagina, for crying out loud! Did they work on this together? Do they think it'll be a fun little thing to bond them as a couple – to prank Katniss with cheesy Valentine's messages? I can just _imagine_ them cackling conspiratorially as they wrote this.

I think I'll keep this card after all. Just for giggles.

As class continues, I glance around the room and see a few people looking at me with confusion and curiosity. Peeta catches my eye and smiles as if to congratulate me. I keep my face passive and suck on my lollipop. He simply shrugs and turns back around to focus on the class discussion.

I frown as I stare at the back of his head. I suddenly feel sort of bad for him. It must be tough being gay in a gossipy small town, especially on Valentine's Day. I'm pretty _sure_ that he is, anyway. It really just makes sense. I mean, he's athletic, handsome, sensitive, artistic, he bakes, and he's never had a girlfriend before. Maybe I'll send him a Candy Gram tomorrow, just because.

I quickly push the Candy Gram message to the back of my mind and go on with my day. Gale will definitely hear an earful about this later.

* * *

At lunchtime, however, I'm met with another seemingly cheesy Valentine's Day practical joke. Someone has taped a freaking_ rose _to my locker!

Before anyone else can see the bright red monstrosity, I rip it off and shove it inside my backpack.

I forcefully open my locker to put my books away, feeling annoyed and perturbed to be the butt-end of such a childish and stupid prank. I quickly look around, expecting to see Gale peek from around the corner or saunter up with a laugh. He doesn't, though. It doesn't make any sense to me. The Gale I know would definitely want to see my reaction, especially if he spent any money on it. Otherwise, what's the point? Then again, perhaps making me paranoid until the oh-so-hilarious "reveal" might just be a part of the prank.

When I enter the cafeteria, I spot Gale and Madge sitting at a table. I quickly march over and sit down across from them with haste, raising my eyebrows accusingly.

"What's up your ass today, Kat?" Gale asks with a snort. Madge looks concerned, but also a little amused. I narrow my eyes at both of them and purse my lips.

"Oh, I think you _know_!"

They glance at each other in confusion and then back to me.

"No, not really," Gale replies slowly. "Well, besides the _usual_…."

Madge elbows him and shakes her head.

"Katniss, what's wrong?" she asks softly.

I open my backpack, retrieve the Candy Gram and the rose, and scoot it across the table towards Gale. "_This_!" I answer. "This is what's wrong! Nice joke, _Gale_. Ha ha. Very funny. Absolutely side-splittingly hilarious. You can stop now, okay?"

He frowns and seems taken aback, then picks up the card. Before reading it, he assures me, "I definitely didn't send you this. I didn't even send _Madge _one—"

"Boyfriend of the year, right here," she deadpans. "Anyway, Gale didn't buy you a rose, Katniss. I know this because he's never even bought _me_ a rose. He's way too cheap."

"Exactly!" Gale cheerfully agrees. He places an arm around Madge's shoulder and kisses her cheek. "I'm rich in other ways, though."

She rolls her eyes and shrugs off his arm, but can't seem to help the small smile that curves her lips. "Yeah, yeah. You're rich, all right."

I shake my head and sigh loudly. I'm still not sure I believe them. "Well, if _you _didn't send it, then who did?"

Gale looks down at the Candy Gram and begins to read it. His eyes slowly light up in amusement as he does, and then he starts to laugh.

"Oh my _God_! You actually thought I'd write this crap?" He snorts loudly and quickly hands the note to Madge, who starts to read it as soon as it touches her hand. "I would _never_. Not even as a joke!"

"Awww! This is so sweet!" She smiles widely and looks up at me, ignoring Gale's laughter from beside her. She arches an eyebrow and finally turns to him. "It wouldn't hurt you to do things like this for me, you know."

Gale snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah right. No self-respecting man would write that!"

"That's why I thought _you_ did it," I retort, smirking.

Gale is just about to undoubtedly insult me back when Madge giddily intervenes, "I think you might just have a secret admirer, Katniss. How romantic!"

Gale and I both start to laugh at this. I stop abruptly and give him an icy glare.

"What do you find funny about that, Gale?"

He shrugs, looking completely amused. "Everything."

I want to argue, but he's right. Instead, I sigh and hastily grab the rose and the note before stuffing them disdainfully back into my backpack.

"So if it's not you, someone else is definitely having a laugh."

I glance suspiciously around me. It could be _anyone_. I decide to send warning glares in every direction, just in case the person is watching me.

"Looks that way, Catnip," Gale agrees with a shrug.

Madge shakes her head in disagreement. "Well, I think it's nice and sweet. Someone obviously _really_ likes you—"

"No," I interrupt, feeling annoyed and a little embarrassed. "Gale's right. Who would like me? Seriously. This is definitely a stupid prank, and they better not let me find out who they are."

But I _am_ going to do my best to find out exactly who's behind this.

And when I do, it will be war_._


	2. Shooting Straight

**Shooting Straight**

I find the Candy Gram vendor before last hour and buy three—one each for Gale, Madge, and Peeta.

For Gale, I pick one with a watermelon lollipop because I know he hates that particular flavor with a passion. On his Candy Gram, I write: _Asshole. I still think it was you. Suck it._

On Madge's, I simply say: _Thought I'd send you a Candy Gram since your boyfriend is a cheap asshole._

When I get to Peeta's, I hesitate before writing anything. We've been in the same classes for years, but we don't know each other well enough to sign my name or give any indication it's from me. I don't want to freak him out, or worse—give him the impression that I like him in a more than friendly way. I'm pretty sure he prefers Twinkies over doughnuts, and it would be extremely awkward for both of us if he had to 'let me down gently'.

Finally, I just scribble some generalized, hokey message: _Hey you. You're great. Just thought you should know. Keep being yourself._

I cringe as soon as I hand the note over. 'Keep being yourself' - Of course he'll keep being himself. What _else_ is he gonna be, a damn penguin? Ugh.

I really don't even know _why_ I'm sending these stupid Candy Grams. I feel like I'm being a hypocrite by contributing money to this inane, capitalistic holiday. But I also know how isolated and lonely Peeta must feel, so I guess it's worth it. Besides, we're probably the only two people in this school who will be alone on Valentine's Day. For completely different reasons, but still. We should stick together, even if it's a secret on my part. He's a nice guy and he always smiles at me; which is surprising since almost every other guy tends to avoid making eye contact with me anymore. You give one asshole a black eye for getting grabby with your ass, and suddenly you're blacklisted as girlfriend material. Oh well.

Anyways, it just seems as if Peeta could use some encouragement right now.

I mean, I know it's probably not the _exact_ sort of lollipop he'd prefer to be sucking on, but it's the thought that counts, right?

* * *

After school, Gale drops me off for work. He works at the same place I do, but on different days and separate shifts. I think our boss believes we might shoot each other at some point, and he doesn't want to have to clean up the bloody mess. It's probably a very good call on his part.

My job consists of teaching archery lessons to children. Some days I love it, some days I hate it. It generally depends on the kid I'm teaching and their level on the Brat-o-Meter. Level One being 'This kid is perfect and adorable, and makes me want to possibly pop a kid out someday'—which, mind you, is as rare as spotting a leprechaun riding a unicorn in outer space— and Level Ten being 'I hate this kid so much I want to shove an arrow up my vagina until my ovaries puncture and it'll never be a possibility to give birth to a sack of flesh so horrible.'

Anyway, it was by complete accident that I even got into archery to begin with.

When I was twelve, my dad died in a car crash… and so did the woman he was apparently having an affair with. Up until that point, I was under the fairytale assumption that my family was perfect and my parents loved each other dearly. Maybe they _did_. Maybe my dad just couldn't keep his pecker in his pants. I don't know. I was a kid; I never really got all the details. I suppose I never will. I _do_ know my mom was in a shocked stupor for days. She didn't seem to know how to handle the sudden grief of her husband dying, along with the horrible realization that he had been screwing around. Or how to deal with the fact that _everyone_ in town found out about it due to the many media reports.

Ultimately, her fight-or-flight response kicked in over it all. And flight won. _Literally._ Without so much as a goodbye to me or my little sister, Prim, she boarded a plane and flew to a whole different state.

She'd simply told us she was going to the grocery store, though. And, as grief-stricken as I was over the death of my father, all I could think about was how painfully long it was taking her to get back with my Fruit Roll-Ups. After a week of being left on our own and wondering when, or if, Mom was ever going to return, our Uncle Haymitch luckily stopped by to see how things were holding up.

Long story short, he took us in when he realized our mom had abandoned us. He got full custody without any fight from our mom whatsoever, and we've been living with him ever since.

He's never had any children of his own and he's never been married. He's a retired war veteran, and a functional alcoholic with a slightly abrasive personality. He's a decent guy beneath the hard exterior, though. His heart is in the right place and I know he'd do anything for me and Prim if it came down to it. He's been more of a parent to us than our own parents ever have been.

As for Mom, she calls every once in a while on special occasions like our birthdays and Christmas, but I usually refuse to speak to her. I'm not going to indulge the easing of her guilty conscience. I'd_ like_ to forgive her, but she still hasn't seen us since she left, so obviously it's not something she'd like to take back or make amends for. If she _wanted_ to be part of our lives, and if she really loved us, she'd be here_._ But apparently we were just discardable accessories to her.

It's totally her loss, though, because Prim is kind, beautiful, and gifted in every way.

After a few months of living with Uncle Haymitch, he decided to sign us up for dance classes. He didn't really give us an explanation as to why, but I think he was trying to make an effort to at least bring some distraction and normalcy to our life. Or he just wanted to get rid of us a few times a week; which, if I'm being _completely_ honest, is way more likely. He's never been much of a kid person.

Prim excelled at dancing and even became head of her class. I, however, basically have the balance of a Weeble Wobble. I really don't have a graceful bone in my body, and that fact was very apparent to the dance instructor as well. After weeks of frustration on her part, complete disinterest on mine, and after I broke a fellow student's nose on accident with my horrible dance moves, I was finally, and thankfully, dropped from the class.

Uncle Haymitch, determined to keep me in some sort of extra-curricular activity, eventually signed me up for archery lessons. He was a little hesitant about it at first, not believing it'd be a good idea to mix my rage and rebellion with a weapon, but he relented as soon as he realized that it was the only class with spots still available.

As it turned out, I was a natural when it came to shooting a bow. My instructor was pretty impressed that I could hit the center of a target after only a couple lessons. This is also probably one of the _many_ reasons why I don't get asked out. No guy wants a girlfriend whose best talent is shooting a target with a sharp object from a distance, with precision. I guess it's a bit intimidating. Or, as one jerk told me before, 'really fucking creepy'.

The first part of the afternoon goes by quite normally until I'm called into the office by my manager, Mr. Snow. He's the typical asshole boss—a Know-It-All who doesn't really know shit. I fully admit that I've fantasized about shooting him with my bow quite often.

I immediately notice that there's a guy standing at the far end of the office, staring intently at a painting on the wall. He has blond, curly hair and broad shoulders, and his jeans hug certain parts of him perfectly….

I jump as Mr. Snow snaps his fingers in front of my face. He shakes his head disapprovingly at me, and my face heats up at knowing I was just caught staring at a customer's ass. Luckily he's still turned around, though, and didn't witness the exchange.

"Everdeen, for reasons I don't come close to understanding, this gentleman has specifically requested _you_ for lessons. I expect you to treat him as you would any of your other pupils, and not to be your usual smartass self." He leans in by my ear and whispers harshly, "He paid extra, too, so you better treat him like a _king_. You hear me?"

I narrow my eyes and purse my lips in indignation, but I reluctantly nod. I'll treat him normally, but I won't be treating _anyone_ like a king. I don't care how much he paid.

I glance over at the guy again, my mind suddenly reeling.

He specifically requested _me_…?

_What_?

"Mr. Mellark," Mr. Snow suddenly calls out, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "She's all yours."

_Oh my God._

He turns around quickly with a shy half-smile, and my cheeks redden further as I realize I was just admiring _Peeta Mellark's_ ass. Well, that's embarrassing. He'll definitely make some lucky guy extremely happy one day, though. No doubt about that at all.

He walks over, stops in front of me, and shrugs. "Um. Hi, Katniss. I hope you don't think it's weird that I requested you—"

"Well, it's a _little _weird," I answer honestly only to hear Mr. Snow clear his throat in warning. I roll my eyes and explain, "Just because I didn't even know you knew I worked here."

"Everyone knows you work here."

I guess that's true. Everyone does seem to know I teach archery, and this is basically the only place where you can learn it in town.

"But why did you request _me_, of all people?" I ask in confusion. "I mean, Gale works here too—"

"Gale isn't you, though," Peeta replies quietly, then shakes his head and rubs his eyes as if he'd said something wrong. "I mean… I just hear that, you know, you're kind of the best at this stuff. And if I want to learn right, I better learn from the master."

"_Master_?" I repeat, raising my eyebrows in amusement. "Okay. Well, let me go get my whips and chains then." His eyes widen and his mouth drops open, but he quickly closes it. I snort at his shocked expression and shake my head. "I'm only kidding, Peeta."

He nods, but remains silent, as if in deep thought about something.

"Anyways, you're gonna need protection," I say distractedly, walking over to the supplies closet. Peeta follows me in without a word and watches as I rummage through a drawer full of arm bracers, trying to find one that will be big enough to fit his muscled forearm. I finally pick one that looks large enough and turn to him; I notice that his face is flushed and he looks very confused.

"These are so the string doesn't skin you up," I explain.

His eyes widen in acknowledgement and he nods. I abruptly take his arm in my hands, feeling it tremble in my grasp, and place the bracer around his forearm. I sigh loudly and shake my head when I realize that it doesn't fit.

"Damn it."

"What's wrong?"

"You're too big. It won't fit," I answer, rolling my eyes. I take the bracer and shove it back into the drawer, and continue to search for one that _will_ fit. "We usually only teach kids, and you're definitely _not_ a kid."

"I'm seventeen and a half. The website said you had to be under eighteen, so _technically_—"

"I know, I know," I interrupt, waving a hand at him. "But usually when we get the older ones, someone else takes care of it. Or they're not as big as you. I normally work with people who are a lot smaller."

"I'm sorry if my size intimidates you?"

I roll my eyes and chuckle. "Peeta, size and all, you're about as intimidating as a cupcake."

"Hey, we make some pretty scary looking cupcakes at the bakery during Halloween," he jokes, biting his lip to keep from grinning.

"Oh, I bet they're absolutely _nightmare_ inducing," I agree playfully. "Although, I'm sure they're not _half _as nightmare inducing as the decorations you all have for Valentine's." I turn back to the drawer to continue my search, and hear him sigh from behind me. He doesn't say anything, though.

I finally find one I think will fit, and quickly wrap it around his forearm to see.

"Maybe…"

Nope. Of _course_ not.

I toss it back into the drawer in frustration and continue to look.

"I…uh," Peeta rubs the back of his neck as if he's uncomfortable. "I guess I don't really _need _protection. I'm willing to risk the consequences if you—"

"I'm _not_," I cut him off. "I don't need or want any accidents."

I pick out a hot pink bracer and turn to him with an apologetic look. He raises an eyebrow and cringes, then closes his eyes in acceptance and reluctantly holds his arm out for me.

"It fits!"

"It _would_," he remarks grudgingly, staring disdainfully down at his Barbie pink bracer.

"Oh, don't be like that! You look absolutely _fabulous_," I tease with a wink. "Now let's get you out of the closet and into some action."

I instantly regret my choice of words, but luckily he doesn't seem to notice what I'd said. Either that or he didn't feel the need to comment on it.

God, I'm such an idiot sometimes.

* * *

"So why exactly are you wanting to learn archery?" I ask as we make our way out to the target field. "I mean, not that I don't _fully_ approve of your awesome decision. I'm just curious."

"Um…" He seems contemplative for a moment before finally answering, "I'm going on a hunting trip this summer."

"Ah, so you want to impress the guys?" I wink.

"Yeah. Something like that. I don't want to look clueless," he replies and then releases a deep breath. "There's… there's also someone who I've kind of liked for a long time and they're really great at all this. I thought maybe if I showed an interestin their interest…" He shrugs and chews on his bottom lip.

"Then they might become interested in you?"

"It's stupid, I know," he says. "I don't think the person even has a clue."

"You don't know that for sure. They _might_ even like you back and they're just too scared to say anything. It's a big step to take, to admit you like someone. It's pretty admirable, though."

"You think so?"

"Yeah," I answer with a nod. "I do."

He stops for a moment and studies my face a bit intensely, as if letting my words sink in. I feel slightly uncomfortable as he does so. Peeta might be gay, but he's definitely good looking and I'm most certainly not blind.

"Anyway," I abruptly turn away from him and keep walking towards the target field. "Showing an interest in something they enjoy is a great way to get them to notice you, if they haven't already. And I promise by the time I'm through with you, you'll be hitting bullseyes left and right."

"I hope."

When we finally reach our destination on the target field, I turn to him again.

"Watch me a few times," I instruct. "Just observe and then later try to mimic what I'm showing you." I proceed to shoot a few arrows, explaining every step along the way, and then eventually turn back to him with my eyebrows raised. "Ready to give it a try?"

"But I was really enjoying observing _you_," he answers with a such a genuine smile it makes my stomach flutter. What is _wrong_ with me? I guess I should've eaten lunch today instead of giving people dirty looks.

I take a deep breath and return his smile. "_I'm_ not the one who paid for lessons, though. You have to start sometime. I find that people learn better with hands-on experience."

I place the bow in his hands and the quiver of arrows around his shoulder. He seems more than a little awkward, but that's pretty normal. No one ever really feels comfortable starting out.

"Nock your arrow," I say, placing my hand steadily on top of his to guide. He shakes nervously beneath my touch as he follows my directions and releases a raspy breath. "Good. Now pull it back to your shoulder and just hold it there for a moment. Steady your shaft and try to get used to the feel of it in your hand. Try not to prematurely eject."

"I won't," he assures quickly, "I have pretty good control."

I nod as I place one hand on his chest and the other on his back. "Now stand erect and confident. It's very important when it comes to shooting straight."

"Erect and confident," he repeats, furrowing his brow. "Should be easy enough."

"Spread your legs wide for me," I say as I gently nudge my feet against his to space them farther apart. He stifles a snort of laughter all of a sudden and I raise an eyebrow at him. "What?"

He shrugs and hesitates before finally answering with a playful smirk, "Nothing. Just… shouldn't you at _least_ buy me dinner first?"

I look at him in confusion for a moment, and then start to laugh as it occurs to me what I'd said. "Wow. Was that actually a _joke_, Mellark?"

"A feeble attempt at one, but yeah." His face is the exact shade of a tomato, but he looks rather pleased with himself.

I squeeze his arm in a friendly way and grin up at him, suddenly feeling very warm all over despite the chill in the air.

"Look, I'll make you a deal. If you hit the center of the target by the end of your lessons, and inevitably win that person's heart with your bow skills, dinner will be completely on me, okay? And I'm not talking about McDonald's, either. I'll buy you and your date something fancy."

"Is that a promise?" he asks, avoiding my eyes.

"It's a promise."


	3. Incentive

_Chapter Three_

**Incentive**

When Peeta shoots his first arrow, it misses the target board by a good ten feet and lands way out in the field. Still, it's far from the worst I've seen. In fact, I'm actually kind of impressed that he released the arrow correctly and with such power. He bites his bottom lip, however, wincing and shaking his head as if embarrassed by his lack of skill.

"Well, this is just _tragic_, Peeta," I remark with a dramatic sigh. "You didn't hit the target on your _very first try_! What am I going to do with you?"

He glances sideways at me with a timid, apologetic smile and shrugs. "Whatever you want to, I guess. I'm kind of at your mercy here."

"Whatever I want, huh?" I step back and cross my arms over my chest, considering.

"Yeah. Anything," he answers, squinting at the target board as he adjusts the bow in his arms. His tongue darts out to lick his lips in concentration, and I find myself focusing in on them. I never quite noticed how plump and perfectly shaped they were before. Then again, I never really had a _reason_ to notice. The only reason I'm noticing _now_ is because they're equal height to my eyes.

"Okay then. Run ten laps around the field."

He cuts his eyes quickly at me and studies my face to see if I'm being serious or not. I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep a straight face as he knits his brows, gulps, and finally nods in acceptance. When he turns to place the bow down on the ground and heed my demand, I can't help the peal of laughter that escapes me.

"Oh my God_,_ Peeta, I'm not being _serious_! You weren't actually going to do it, were you?"

"Well, I said I'd do _anything_ for you," he replies. "I mean… whatever you think would help better my game, I'm for it. I really want to get good at this. I'm looking forward to that dinner you'll be buying us."

He then winks at me and smirks. If he wasn't gay, I'd swear that he's trying to flirt with me.

"_Us_?" I arch an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He turns away from me and brings the bow back up to shoot. "_Us._ Me and my date, right?"

"Right." I nod and clear my throat. I feel ridiculous for even entertaining the possibility that he'd meant me and him, so I quickly change the subject back to the lesson at hand. "Anyway, I didn't expect you to hit the bullseye on the very first try. No one ever does. It takes a lot of practice to even hit the target board. For what it's worth, though, your fingering was near perfect and so was your posture and ejection, so that's promising. I'm actually kind of impressed."

"Thanks. I'm flattered that you're impressed with my fingering."

I'm rendered speechless for a moment as I try to figure out whether he was actually only thanking me and parroting my own poor word choice, or if he _really_ just made a sexual joke at my expense.

He doesn't seem to notice my silence, however. He's too busy distracting himself with positioning the bow and arrow. Maybe he's embarrassed about what he'd just said and is avoiding looking at me? Or then again, maybe I just have a dirty mind and I'm reading far too much into things. Either way, I decide right then that I won't ask him about it. If I'm wrong, it'd be weird for both of us. And if I'm _right_, it'd be even weirder.

"Want me to shoot again?" he asks suddenly, and by the earnest, innocent expression he's wearing, I immediately feel ridiculous all over again. Of _course_ he wasn't making a sexual innuendo, he was simply being polite. It was my _own _stupid wording; I'm lucky he didn't laugh at me because of it.

"Sure, go ahead."

He shoots another arrow and this time it only goes a short distance, stopping right before the target board, and sticks tail-up in the ground. He closes his eyes and groans in frustration, but before he can say anything, I lift an arrow from the quiver and hand it to him, which he takes without a word and begins to nock.

"Try to get your dominant eye in line with the arrow and the target, then release," I instruct, placing my hand on his lower back and the other on his upper arm in order to help his aim.

Peeta sucks in a deep breath and his entire body goes rigid. As he begins to tremble beneath my palms, the arrow ejects prematurely and wobbles to the ground in front of him, and it occurs to me that perhaps he isn't comfortable being touched by a girl—hell, maybe not even by _anyone_. I know _I_ don't like it when people touch me, after all.

I quickly remove my hands from him, take a few steps back, and mutter an awkward, "Sorry for being so… um… _hands-on_ about teaching. I'm used to instructing little kids who have no upper body strength or sense of direction. It's just instinct. I'll stop if it makes you uncomfortable though."

"It's okay, trust me, I'm perfectly fine with you touching me," Peeta reassures quickly. "I actually enjoy your hands-on guidance. It helps me know if I'm doing things right." He scratches his head, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he lowers the bow. "You just… you kind of make me nervous. But not in a bad way."

"So I make you nervous in a _good_ way?" I ask with a small laugh. I act amused and casual about it, but I'm honestly curious. Peeta has always seemed a bit skittish around me, we've never really talked to each other, and it's still a mystery as to why he'd specifically ask for _me_, of all people, to give him archery lessons.

"You're just…" He licks his bottom lip and draws his eyebrows together as if contemplating what to say next. "You're just kind of… intimidating."

"Oh. Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've heard _that _before," I snap with a roll of my eyes.

Although I've been told the same thing numerous times by other people, it feels like I've been punched in the gut hearing it come from someone like Peeta. I know I'm a bit off-putting at times, but it doesn't mean I'm a completely horrible person who wants to make people feel bad. In fact, it's the opposite. I got tired of _other_ people making _me_ feel bad, so I stopped letting them. I stopped acting like I care because caring is the biggest weakness you can have, and it's the easiest way to get hurt.

"You didn't let me finish, though," Peeta says in a rush, and when he smiles reassuringly down at me, a weird feeling takes over in my stomach; it's as if it's twisting in knots and, at the same time, doing flips. I don't like it at all.

I take a deep breath to settle my acrobatic insides and focus my eyes on the target boards, trying my best to keep my face passive.

"Finish then. Make it quick, though. These lessons are timed, and this isn't supposed to be personal hour." I say this more as a reminder to myself. "And besides, I really don't _care _what people think of me. Not you, not anyone."

"If you don't care what I think, then why'd you ask?" Peeta gives me a pointed look, but it's more of a lighthearted one than judgmental. Either way, it only makes me feel more indignant.

"I was being rhetorical," I answer flippantly as I hastily pull another arrow from the quiver and hand it to him.

"Okay…" He shrugs as he takes the arrow out of my hand. "Want me to keep shooting then?"

I purse my lips and nod, but as he silently nocks an arrow and begins to pull it back, I find myself blurting, "If I intimidate you, how could that ever be a good thing?"

He shoots again and while the arrow soars much closer to the target board, it still flies past it and lands in the field. He shakes his head and releases a huff of disappointment before turning to me again. I raise my eyebrows in question and hand him another arrow.

"Maybe _intimidating _wasn't the right word to use…" The tips of his ears have turned red, though I'm not sure if it's because of the chill in the air or from being embarrassed. He keeps his eyes glued to the ground as he continues, "I just meant… you're very confident about who you are and what you think—and that's a great thing. But it also makes me a little worried that I'll look like a complete idiot in front of you. I don't know. I didn't mean it in a bad way at all, though."

"Are you serious?" I ask with a disbelieving snort. He shrugs and glances quickly at me with a wary smile."Peeta, I could never think of you as an idiot. And the only thing I'm truly confident about is my ability to skillfully penetrate things with an arrow." I place a hand on his upper arm and squeeze it reassuringly, "And soon _you'll_ be a pro at it too. Anyone can do it with a little bit of practice."

"Well, it's always been a dream of mine to be a pro at skillfully penetrating things," he says with a straight face, but I can clearly hear the amusement in his tone.

This time I know for a _fact_ that he has totally twisted my words into something sexual. I place a hand on my hip and narrow my eyes, assessing him. It's as if I'm seeing him for the first time. Perhaps I've misjudged him. Aside from the shy exterior, and beneath the polite persona, he's just as screwed up and dirty minded as the rest of us. He's just really good at hiding it.

I decide not to comment about it, though. I like that he's opening up enough to joke with me a little. I don't want to ruin it; it makes things a whole lot less awkward.

"I'm glad I have you to teach me," he adds.

"Oh, I will. Like I said, you'll be hitting bullseyes with your eyes closed by the time I'm through with you," I reassure with a knowing wink. I then lean in closer to him and say quietly, "And _eventually_ maybe you can skillfully penetrate whoever it is you're planning to take to dinner."

Peeta gapes at me, blinks, and for a moment he looks completely in disbelief of what I'd said to him. I wiggle my eyebrows and laugh, and his face immediately transforms from shocked to absolutely beaming.

"Maybe," he replies, and with his blue eyes twinkling with mirth, he sends me a bashful, yet mischievous grin. "It's certainly an incentive."

"We better get to practicing then."

He nods quickly, and without another word, turns and shoots an arrow with newfound determination.

* * *

Peeta doesn't hit the target board by the time his lesson is over, but he informs me that he has three more lessons, with his next one being on Thursday—and that he'll buy more if he hasn't hit anything by the end of them. I don't think more lessons will be necessary as I have no doubt that he'll be hitting the bullseye by the end of his third lesson. And regardless of whether he actually ever _does_ hit the bullseye, I've already decided that I'll pay for the dinner with his date anyway.

Maybe all this Valentine's Day crap is getting to me. Then again, maybe I just like happy endings for good people.

When Gale picks me up from work, the first thing he asks when I get into his car is, "Why are you all smiley? Did someone get skewered?"

"Ha ha. No," I reply monotonously and immediately try to rid the smile from my face. I honestly didn't even know it was there until it was brought to my attention. "I just had a fun time at work is all."

"Fun at _work_?" Gale stops the car and narrows his eyes suspiciously at me. He continues in a slow, serious tone, "Okay, where's Katniss? I'm warning you right now, I've watched every alien and clone movie there is and I _know_ how to get rid of you."

I want to tell Gale about Peeta, and how he'd asked specifically for me to give him lessons, but I know he'd just make it out to be something more than what it is. I don't know how good Gale's gaydar is and I don't want to out Peeta before he's ready—not that I think Gale would give him a hard time or anything, he would _never_ do that. But because it isn't _my _place to gossip about things that aren't any of my business. People can be assholes when it comes to things they don't understand or don't want to.

So instead, I just shrug and reply matter-of-factly, "You can't get rid of me. If you try, I'll take over your girlfriend's body and you'll never get laid again. Resistance is futile."

Gale releases the brake and starts to drive again. "Okay then. I'm on your side and I will do your bidding. Are you here to take over Earth, study it, or destroy it?"

"None of the above. I am here to destroy Valentine's Day."

"I'm sorry, my outer space ally," Gale laughs and shakes his head. "That's bigger than both of us."

* * *

As I walk in the front door, I'm greeted by the sight of Uncle Haymitch sleeping on the couch. He opens an eye and grumbles, "You have mail on the kitchen table."

I'm immediately curious as to who I could have mail from. I _never _get mail. Well, besides birthday cards from Mom, but that isn't until May—and that's mail I'd rather not even receive. I walk into the kitchen and find an open envelope with no return address on the table. It has a rose stamp and a red heart sticker on the front—which has been ripped in half in what, I'm assuming, was my Uncle Haymitch's haste to read what's inside.

Without even reading the contents, I walk back into the living room and confront him about it.

"You know opening mail that isn't addressed to you is a federal offense?"

He yawns and looks at me unapologetically. "It doesn't have a return address, and I had to make sure you weren't receiving death threats or blackmail. Nothing surprises me with you, sweetheart."

I hold the envelope up and point to the torn heart with an accusing look. "You ripped my heart in half, though!"

"What can I say? I've always been a bit of a heartbreaker," he answers with a straight face. "Anyway, looks like you got yourself a secret admirer?"

"No. I _don't_," I mutter, my face reddening. "Someone's playing a stupid joke on me."

"But from the looks of that _letter_…." A teasing grin spreads across his face, and I know he's going to pick on me about this Valentine's admirer thing if I don't divert attention from it.

"Shut up about it or I'll march right over to Effie's and tell her you want to be the father to her poodles!"

"For the _last _time, I don't like her like that. She's… _weird_."

"So what? You are too. Match made in heaven. Or hell. Either way, it's a perfect match."

Effie Trinket is our neighbor and has been for four years. She's as eccentric as they come, but so is Uncle Haymitch. She might be a bit strange, but she's nice and I think she'd be good for him. Especially since Effie goes out of her way to bring us "left-overs" all the time, except the left-overs are always freshly cooked or baked, and are definitely made with the intention of giving them to us. Or to Uncle Haymitch. I'm pretty sure she's taken the passage of 'a way to a man's heart is through his stomach' literally.

"She dresses her _dogs_."

"So? That doesn't mean she doesn't want to undress _you_," I counter and then make a face as I realize what I'd just implied, and so does Uncle Haymitch. I hold my hands up in surrender and shake my head with a look of disgust still on my face. "Ugh, okay. You win. I just gave myself mental scarring and nightmares for a month, at least."

"Good. Serves you right."

I stick my tongue out at him and make my way to the bathroom, where I take the letter out of the envelope and read it. My eyes narrow in suspicion as I read:

_By now you've received my Candy Gram and rose, and I'm sure you're probably a little confused._ _I assure you, all will be revealed by Valentine's Day._ _Until then I want you to see that romance is far from dead._

At the bottom, the sender has left an obscure email of Anon822, and to feel free to ask if I have any questions. Well, that seems oddly formal.

My first thought goes to Gale—he _must _be the one doing this. Then again, he doesn't even own a computer. And since when has he ever written with good grammar?

Or maybe it's Cato trying to get back at me for last year? I bruised his ego along with his eye and I can totally see him trying to humiliate me the way I did him.

I march down the hall to the bedroom I share with Prim, only to find the door locked. I groan and roll my eyes in annoyance, knocking hard and shaking my head at how often this has been happening lately.

"Hold on! I'm change—oof—I'm _changing_!" Prim's strained voice calls out from inside the room. I sigh loudly and knock again, knowing from the hurried movement and panicked whispers that my little sister is doing something a whole lot less innocent than changing—or _was_. And I'm pretty sure what she was doing didn't involve putting clothes _on, _either.

"It's only _me_, Prim," I reply through clenched teeth, trying to keep my temper even and my voice low so Uncle Haymitch doesn't hear. "Open up!"

A moment later I hear the lock turn. With messy blond hair and wearing only a pink robe, Prim opens the door for me to enter. As soon as I do, she shuts it quickly and locks it again.

"You two need to stop doing this all the time," I snap. "This is my room, too. I think I have a say about what goes on in it!"

"Oh, don't be such a cock block," Prim laughs, grinning and waving her hand at me. She calls over to her bed, "Babe, you can come out now. It's only Katniss."

"Yeah, you're lucky it's _only_ me. One of these days it's going to be Uncle Haymitch and your little boyfriend is going to be facing a cock _chop_ instead of a cock _block_," I mutter disapprovingly as I sit down on my bed. I watch as Rory, Gale's sixteen year old brother, scoots from beneath the pink frills of Prim's bed, clad in only boxers. I avert my eyes immediately as he stand and _other _things stand out.

"_Little _boyfriend? I don't think so," he remarks.

"For the love of… _put some pants on_!" I demand with my eyes hidden beneath my hands. "I don't want to see what you're poking my baby sister with."

I first learned that Prim was sexually active in probably the worst way possible. A year ago, when she was fifteen, she came to me in tears and confided that she might be pregnant. Needless to say, I was more than a little shocked. Prim is beautiful, talented, soft-spoken, friendly, and she's always made good grades. She's the epitome of a 'good girl', and while she'd had a few boyfriends by then, I naturally thought she'd never go past kissing and hand-holding.

Apparently I was wrong.

Of course I was concerned for her, so I went to buy a pregnancy test and a box of condoms for future prevention of having to buy another pregnancy test. A fellow classmate named Clove saw me buying them and spread a rumor around school that I sleep around and that I was pregnant. This obviously _wasn't _true, but it didn't stop guys from trying to 'date' me. And when they realized they weren't coming close to my zipper, they'd get all offended—as if just by reputation alone, I owed them something.

Prim luckily wasn't pregnant, which was a huge relief. I think Uncle Haymitch would have had a heart attack if she had been. Prim has always been his 'little princess', and he's still under the impression that she has tea parties and plays with dolls. If he knew that she and the neighbor boy have been sneaking into each other's windows almost every night for the past eight months, he'd probably drop dead from shock. That, or kill someone.

"Oh geez, shut up _please_. Both of you," Prim says in a mortified tone.

I just shrug as I reach for my laptop. Rory puts his clothes back on and walks over to the window with Prim's hand in his. I roll my eyes and keep them glued to the screen of my laptop as I hear the same old predictable exchange:

"I love you," Prim whispers as she wraps her arms around his waist and leans up to kiss him.

"I love you more," he murmurs back with a suggestive edge to his voice.

"I hate you," I mimic in a sarcastic tone, placing my hands over my heart. "Oh, but I hate you _more_—"

"_Katniss_…" Prim glances back at me with narrowed eyes and shakes her head. I shrug unapologetically and focus back on my computer screen as she turns to Rory once more. "I'll see you tomorrow. Dream of me?"

"Trust me, I'll be doing a lot more than just dreaming of you tonight—"

"_Good night_!" I call out sternly to speed things along.

With one last drawn-out kiss, he finally disappears out the window, and Prim sighs as she comes over and sits next to me.

"Uncle Haymitch said you got a love letter. Can I see?"

I know she probably wouldn't take no for an answer anyway, so I hand it to her without even bothering to look up from my computer screen.

She has almost the same reaction Madge did to the Candy Gram—she squeals and practically bounces as she asks, "You got a Candy Gram and a rose, too? You _have _to email this person, Katniss. Oh my gosh, this is so exciting! Do you even realize how romantic having a secret admirer _is_?"

"I think it's kind of creepy and annoying, myself," I retort. "I plan on emailing who ever it is and telling them to knock it off. It's just a stupid joke and I don't find it very funny."

"But what if it's _not_ a joke?" she counters with raised eyebrows and a huge grin. "What if someone _really _has a huge whopping crush on you, wants to kiss you, and make love to you—"

I stick my tongue out and shake my head at the absurdity of it all. "Then I guess they're in for a huge disappointment."

"Would it be so disappointing if you fell in love, Katniss?" Prim gives me a sympathetic look as if I'm an injured puppy or something.

"Yeah, it would be," I reply irritably as I pull up my email. "Falling hurts. And anyway, this isn't anything more than someone going to great lengths to make fun of me."

"By buying you a rose and a Candy Gram?" she asks skeptically.

"Yeah. So I don't _suspect_ it's a joke," I answer.

"Whatever." Prim sighs in defeat and walks over to her bed. "Don't be _too_ harsh on the poor guy, though. It might really be someone who likes you."

I don't reply, I just type:

_If this is a joke, it's not a very funny one and you're not fooling anyone._ _What do you want out of this and who the hell are you?_

My stomach twists into a knot as I press send. I'm not sure I want to know the answers.


	4. Want

_Chapter Four_

**Want**

The first thing I do when I wake is grab my laptop and check my email. When I see a grand total of zero messages in my inbox, however, I roll my eyes and quickly close the lid. I really don't know what I expected; I sent the email right before going to bed—the person probably hasn't even seen it yet.

And if they have: so what?

Even if it turns out that this_ isn't_ just an elaborate prank to humiliate me, it's more than likely just some desperate guy pretending to be sweet by throwing around words like 'romance' and 'Valentine's Day' in hopes that I'll melt faster than an M&M under the summer sun and he'll get laid.

So really, I should be relieved they haven't replied. _Not_ disappointed. In fact, I hope they _never _reply. And if they do, maybe _I _won't. Maybe I won't even read their reply at all. I already feel like a big enough idiot for sending an email in the first place. Now they have my email address, _along _with my home address, which kind of creeps me out a little.

"Well?" Prim sits up in bed with a huge grin and wiggles her eyebrows. "Did your secret admirer write you back?"

I shake my head. "No, thankfully. And it's not a secret admirer."

"Um, that's _exactly _what it is, and it's totally romantic," she counters. "Aren't you excited just a little bit?"

"No, it's creepy. He knows my address, my locker number, and now my email. That's stalker territory."

"It's a small town, everyone knows everyone. It doesn't take major detective work to find out numbers on a mailbox. Besides, there's a fine line between romantic and creepy. It's not creepy unless they're, like, asking for nudes or sending dick pics or—"

"Isn't that how all your relationships start?"

"Funny, Katniss," Prim dryly replies and tosses a pillow, which flies past me and lands on the floor. I stick my tongue out at her and she rolls her eyes as she continues, "_No_. As I was _saying_, a guy sending things like roses and Candy Grams is sweet, not creepy. Think about it – someone is spending their time and money to make you happy, to make you feel special, all the while not even looking to receive instant recognition or gratification for it. It's pretty romantic."

"Yeah, it's a pretty romantic prank, I'll give them that much. They wasted their time and money and I got a lollipop and rose out of the deal, so the joke's completely on them."

I place my laptop on the bedside table and walk over to my dresser. I avoid looking at Prim as I change out of my pajamas, but I can still feel her eyes burning a hole through me.

"What _would_ you consider romantic, anyway?" she asks thoughtfully after a moment. "I mean, what would a guy have to say or do in order for you to fall for them?"

"I'm afraid I didn't come with an instruction manual," I deadpan. "To my knowledge, my love doesn't activate with a secret word or a flip of a switch."

She sighs and shakes her head. "No, Miss Cynical. I'm saying, in _general_, what is one thing you'd consider undeniably romantic and sweet?"

"I don't know…" I shrug and close my eyes to block out her expectant gaze. I know she won't let the subject drop until I throw her a bone, however, so I quickly rack my brain for something to satisfy her curiosity. I go with the first thing that pops into my mind, "Well… there's this guy at school that's secretly taking archery lessons to impress someone he's had a crush on for a long time. I guess that's kind of sweet."

When I open my eyes again, Prim is staring at me with her eyebrows raised and a huge, knowing smirk. For some reason, my cheeks begin to burn and I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

"What?" I snap.

"You like him," Prim says, not as a question, not as a suggestion, but as a fact.

"Ha! No, no, _no_," I reply with a laugh that comes out more like a cough mixed with a snort. "Not at all. You couldn't be more wrong. I mean, I like him, but I don't like _like_ him. He's totally not my type."

Because my type is straight.

"Okay. I believe you," Prim says in a high-pitched, dismissive tone that indicates she definitely does _not_ believe me. Well, I'm not even going to justify that with a reply. I can already tell this is one of those scenarios where any further denial only makes me look guiltier. My glare goes seemingly unnoticed as she stands up, stretches, and pulls her nightgown over her head before skipping over to her closet. "So did he tell you _who_ he has a crush on?"

"No, because it's none of my business and it's none of your business either. It's no one's business. And I really don't feel like talking about this anymore—"

"_You_ love archery, Katniss," she states meaningfully.

"So? Your point…?"

"What if _you're_ his crush and he's trying to impress you? What if he's your secret admirer?" Prim asks, sending me a conspiratorial wink over her shoulder. "After all, how many _other_ girls at our school love archery as much as you? Hell, how many girls actually _enjoy_ it?"

"I'm sure _many_ girls enjoy it. Archery is awesome," I assert, cutting my eyes away from her as I sit on the bed to put on my socks. She snorts at this, but I continue undeterred, "And I'm definitely _not_ his crush. He's gayer than a Lisa Frank unicorn, Prim."

Not to mention, even if Peeta _was_ straight he'd have no interest in me—he's an upper class, athletic, artistic, pretty boy who could have his pick of any girl. Girls who are dainty, darling, and dollish. Girls who are blond, bubbly, and big-breasted. Girls who are totally opposite of me. Girls like Prim.

But Peeta likes guys, so that definitely puts me on a whole different spectrum of what he'd be interested in. Not that I'd ever _want_ him to be interested in me, or that I could ever be interested in him. We have nothing at all in common.

"Oh." She looks slightly taken aback for a moment and then shrugs. "Well, I _could've_ been right."

"Yeah, but you're still completely wrong."

* * *

The bus ride to school goes by pretty uneventfully.

Typically, I hitch a ride with Gale. I used to drive myself, but the transmission decided to go out on my car a few months ago. Seeing as to how it was twice as old as I am, and the price of repairing it would've cost more than what I paid for the dang thing, I just sold it to an auto salvage shop. Now, I'm saving all the money I can for a big down payment on a new car and a place to live once I'm out of school. Chipping in for gas money and being the third wheel in Gale and Madge's love-mobile for a few months is a small price to pay for eventual freedom.

This morning, however, Gale sent a text stating that he wouldn't be going to school today, and neither would Madge. When I asked why, he only responded that 'he'd tell me later', so I take that to mean they're both playing hooky to hump each other all day. Fitting for a Wednesday, I guess. So now I get to spend the whole day alone.

Wonderful.

As usual, I'm one of the first people to enter English class. I quickly walk to the very back row and take my favorite seat in the corner, next to the window. As I'm in the process of taking my binder and textbook out of my backpack, I hear someone sit down in the desk right beside mine. I can't help finding this a bit annoying and intrusive. There are at least 30 other empty desks this person could've picked.

For a moment I debate moving to another seat, and how to do it without seeming like a complete bitch, but then I hear a familiar voice greet me with a cheerful, "Good morning!"

My stomach does a somersault as I glance over and find Peeta Mellark, looking far too happy to be awake this early in the morning.

"Hey," I reply dully. I try to think of something else to say, but nothing comes to mind. Luckily, Peeta doesn't seem to notice or care about my short acknowledgment as he abruptly averts his eyes from mine and turns his focus to retrieving something from his backpack.

The silence between us suddenly feels very awkward, so I open up my textbook to a random page and pretend to read. My mind is everywhere but on the book, though. The more I try to dismiss and forget what Prim had said this morning – 'you like him' – it replays in my head, over and over again like a CD skipping. Of course I don't. Not in _that_ way. But it almost feels like I need to explain myself, as if Peeta could guess exactly what I'm thinking if he looked hard enough.

I'm being ridiculous, of course.

I take a deep breath and try to think of something else to say, but before I can, Peeta places a cookie as big as my face down in front of me. An elegantly and expertly decorated bow and arrow made of brown, black, and silver icing resides in the center of it. My mouth drops open slightly at this and my stomach does another somersault.

Finally, I look over at Peeta with a frown and an eyebrow raised in question. "What's this for?"

He shrugs, giving me a half-smile. "For your patience with me yesterday," he explains.

I glance around the room, wondering if anyone else is watching our exchange, but luckily no one seems to be paying attention to us. I feel a little relieved at that. Not for my sake, but for Peeta's. It would suck for anyone to think we're flirting with each other or anything. Especially with this guy he wants to impress, the last thing he needs is a rumor that he has a girlfriend.

"You _paid_ for my patience yesterday, and besides… it was fun, compared to the bratty kids I usually teach," I state, returning his smile, which seems to make his smile even bigger. The morning sunlight reflects in his eyes, making them such an intense, bright blue they almost glow. I catch myself staring, for how long, I don't know—a minute, seconds, milliseconds?—and quickly glance down at the cookie on my desk. "Thanks though. The bow and arrow's a nice touch. Did you decorate it yourself?"

"Yeah," he answers. "It's peanut butter, in case you're wondering."

"My favorite," I reply honestly. Good guess on his part. Then again, peanut butter isn't exactly an uncommon favorite. He probably just went with what sells best at the bakery.

"I know." He says this in a casual, matter-of-fact way, but of course he couldn't _actually_ know. He's more than likely just making lighthearted conversation.

I immediately look over at him and ask, "You know? How do you _know_?"

Peeta's eyes widen at my question at first, but then they relax again only a second later. He licks his lips and shrugs before answering in a confident rush, "Well, you've been coming to the bakery for years. We pride ourselves on remembering what our customers like. You always get peanut butter or sugar cookies, occasionally a cupcake, but peanut butter cookies more often than not. You usually only get the sugar cookies when you're with your friends."

I stare blankly at him for a moment, not really knowing what to make of what he'd just said. I mean, I know what he _said_—I just don't understand _how_ he can remember the exact things that I order. Mellark Bakery is extremely popular and they probably see hundreds of people a day, no doubt thousands in a week, and they also have a very wide-selection of baked goods. I sometimes have trouble remembering names of kids I teach multiple times a week for a whole month, and we don't even come close to scratching the surface of business the bakery receives.

"That's… really observant of you. You have a remarkable memory," I finally reply. I then find myself rambling to make up for my brief pause, "Gale's weird and hates peanut butter so we all compromise with the sugar cookies. I know we _could_ get an assortment, but it's cheaper to get only one kind—not that your prices are too expensive. They're not. In fact, they're pretty cheap. I'm just trying to save for a car. And Gale's _always_ cheap, no excuses for that—"

Peeta nods and looks as if he's about to reply, but luckily the bell rings and the teacher closes the door, signaling the beginning of class and saving me from making an even bigger idiot of myself.

* * *

Towards the middle of class, our English teacher starts to sound extremely reminiscent of the teacher in Charlie Brown. I rub my eyes to stay awake and rest my chin on my hand to keep my head propped up. My eyes wander around the room, however, and I find my mind wandering as well.

I glance over at Peeta and see that he's sketching something in his notebook, seemingly as bored as I am. Curious as to what he's drawing, I lean slightly closer.

I expected something inane—some sort of cartoon character or a random doodle like a penis. But I was wrong. It's a rose. A perfectly shaded, extremely realistic looking rose. I knew Peeta was talented—in fact, in our elementary school days I used to ask him to draw me things. Everyone did. But I had no idea he'd gotten _this_ good….

I become entranced with the ease in which he shades each petal – going from dark to light with such finesse and precision it doesn't seem possible that it's coming from his hands, even more so that he's doing it all from memory. It's so enthralling I feel like I'm witnessing an act of pure magic. I then find myself watching him, wondering how in the world he's doing it. He chews on his bottom lip as he stares down at the paper, and it's like he's lost in his own little world, one where beauty is so abundant it pours from his fingertips onto paper. I notice he has one thick curl that keeps falling over his left eye, which he smoothes out of the way every so often only for it to bounce right back to where it was. Between that and his impossibly long eyelashes, I don't understand how he can see to draw at all.

All of a sudden, he looks over at me with a smile tugging the corners of his lips and his eyebrows raised in question. My eyes widen, and my mouth drops open to explain. But of course I _can't _explain. I feel like a kid being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Except… I'm not guilty of anything, am I? Maybe for being nosy, but that's not a crime. Why is my heart beating like I just ran 5 miles? I was _only_ watching him draw. Nothing to feel weird or guilty about. If he didn't want anyone watching him draw, well… then he shouldn't be drawing in class.

Still, I feel like I should explain why I was staring. God, how long _was_ I staring? How long was he aware that I was staring? I _wasn't _staring. I was admiring a work of art.

'_It's beautiful. Just admiring,' _I quickly write on a corner piece of paper. I decide that sounds incredibly cheesy on its own, so I also add, _'Had to focus on something. Might fall asleep.' _

Without looking over at Peeta, I tilt the paper up for him to read, which I see him do from the corner of my eye. I quickly glance over and he nods once in acknowledgement, his eyes glinting in a playful, elated manner that makes my stomach flip in a weird way, and then he turns his attention back to his notebook once again.

A few seconds later, he tilts a piece of paper in my direction and I look over to read_, 'Me too.' _

Then I do the lamest thing I could possibly do: I give him a thumbs up.

I focus intently on the teacher for the rest of the class. In fact, I avoid looking in Peeta's direction altogether. I don't know what my problem is. In all the years I've known him, I've never felt this way around him before.

Then it hits me...

I'm going to _kill_ Prim.

This is all her fault. She had to go and plant the seed in my head about liking Peeta, and now I feel all awkward about it. I don't like him like _that_, of course… but now I feel as if I have to prove I don't. Which is insane. I don't _have_ to prove anything. He's gay and we're just friends. Friends act like this. Friends admire each other's artwork.

Wait. _Are_ we friends… or just friendly acquaintances?

Who cares? Not me.

When the end of class finally arrives, I make a mad rush to put all my things away and make a hasty exit. As I'm leaning over to zip my backpack, however, I feel something being placed down on my desk. I glance over my shoulder in time to see Peeta's back retreating from the classroom.

And then I look down at my desk.

It's the rose drawing.

At the bottom it says: _For you, _with a casual little smiley face.

My breath catches in my chest, and for a moment I'm slightly dumbfounded. Well, it's certainly better than the real rose that's still stuffed at the bottom of my backpack. At least this one's worth keeping. I fold the drawing in half and carefully slip it into the front pocket of my backpack, wondering what exactly I'm going to do with it. Frame it? That might give the wrong impression. Prim would never let me live it down. But it's a crime to keep art this magnificent hidden away.

I'll figure it out later.

One thing's for sure: whoever winds up with Peeta is going to be a very lucky guy.

* * *

The next few classes are uneventful. Thank God.

During lunch, I decide to go to the library. I don't usually do this, but since Madge and Gale are gone today, I have no one to sit with and I don't want to look all sad and friendless by sitting alone. I open a few random books, but nothing catches my interest. I didn't really come in here to read, though. I just came in here to hide from people.

At least one thing's going right for me today: no secret admirer crap.

As soon as I think that, though, my eyes land on all the student computers that are currently unoccupied. I sigh and look away. No. I'm not going to check my email. I'm not going to ruin the rest of my day by reading some stupid message that may or may not exist by now. It's probably from Gale anyway. Or some other idiot. I'll check my email when I get home. Maybe. Maybe I won't check it at all. I have self-control—I have tons of it.

A few minutes later, I find myself on a computer checking my email.

Crap. They replied. The mouse hovers over the email. I debate opening it right now, or whether I should wait till I get home. Or whether I should ignore it altogether.

Finally, I decide it doesn't matter and click on it with a roll of my eyes.

My eyes narrow as I read:

_Katniss,_

_I promise this is not some sort of cruel prank or joke, and that I'm being 100% genuine. I would've come forward in person with all this, but… sometimes there are certain things you can express freely in written word that may be otherwise awkward to proclaim in person. It's much easier to write things out, to tell you how I truly feel, than to become a tongue-tied bumbling fool in front of you. Rest assured, that __**will**__ happen eventually, though—by Valentine's Day, in fact—that is, if you're willing to meet by then. If you choose not to, I'll leave you be without another word; no hard feelings. _

_Anyways, on to answer your questions:_

_**Who is this?**__ This is someone who has admired you from afar for years and is, quite frankly, a huge coward for not telling you sooner. I suppose it's been easier to entertain the fantasy of chance rather than tempt the reality of rejection. However, this is our senior year, and I know that if I don't tell you now, I most likely never will. I don't want to take the chance of regretting the chance I never took. I no longer wish to dance with the shadows of doubt when I'd much rather dance with you._

_**What do I want?**__ I want to discover all your little quirks, all the subtle things that add up to who you are, the good and the bad. I want to count the freckles on your body and memorize every speck of color in your eyes. I want to press our palms together and thread your fingers between mine. I want to feel the silk of your hair against my chest and your breath upon my lips. I want to inhale you, savor the taste of you, I want to cloak you in the warmth of my arms and whisper into your ear all the ways in which you mesmerize me. I want to know the __real__ Katniss Everdeen, without filter and without walls. I want to know your favorite color. I want to know your favorite animal. I want to know your favorite food, song, TV show, and movie. I want to know all the things you hate, too. I want to laugh with you and cry with you and bask in peaceful silence with you. I want to show you __true__ romance, passion, and love. I want to make you happy._

_Essentially, I want everything. I want the impossible. I want you._

Well, damn.

* * *

Thank you to all the people who have read, favorited, followed, and reviewed so far! Reading your feedback and seeing that people are still interested in this story seriously makes my day and fills me with inspiration. You all are wonderful! I know most of you have waited a long time for a new chapter, so I hope this one didn't disappoint. :) I'd love to hear what you think of the story/chapter! Thanks again!


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